Black and Blue
by Atlin Merrick
Summary: Why do so many of us love hurting our lovely Sherlock? Whether that thought intrigues you, it's certainly on the mind of John Watson. A doctor who has started to do things to his lover he never, ever thought he'd do.
1. Chapter 1

_As writers, why do so many of us love hurting our lovely Sherlock? I was trying to figure that out the other day and ended up writing a few thoughts down. They turned into the beginnings of a story. Let me know what you think please._

_Also, I don't own these characters, shouldn't be doing this to them and am deeply ashamed. But not…repentant._

_(One more thing, if anyone would like to BritPick this I would be happy to make corrections. Thank you.)_

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**Black and Blue**

The first time he made Sherlock bleed, John cried.

"I'm so sorry, oh god I'm so sorry."

Well, he sure hadn't stayed that way.

It'd started when they'd gotten a little silly after a TV movie, one of those thrillers that tries to spike interest with characters having hungry, aggressive sex, slamming one another against bedroom walls. It looks a little sexy and a lot dumb, and both men had laughed, but before bed that night Sherlock had jokingly shoved John against his bedroom wall, given him a peck on the mouth, then started to turn away, just as John was reaching to playfully shove him back.

Instead his hand had connected with Sherlock's mouth in the shadowy room, hard enough that teeth cut flesh, and blood rose from Sherlock's bottom lip.

"Oh, no, no, I'm so sorry, I'm so sorry!" John hands cupped Sherlock's chin. "That was an accident, I'm so sorry!"

Sherlock touched his own mouth, then laid his hands over John's. "It's okay, it's fine."

It was then Sherlock noticed that they both were shaking. And it was then he started to absorb facts, feelings, data. Because that is what Sherlocks do.

A fat pearl of blood began its slow meander south and that's when John's tears came. Nervous tears, just a few. "Oh god, I'm so sorry."

Dazed a little, still thinking, absorbing, computing if you will, Sherlock gently tugged John's hands from his mouth, then wiped at the other man's eyes.

"It's all right, really. I know it was an accident. I didn't even feel it. I'm fine." He kissed his repentant love and smiled. "I'll wash it off. Blood always makes things look more dramatic than they are," John started to shake his head, Sherlock shook his back. "No, it's fine. Go to bed. You've got an early day. I'm fine. Let me brush my teeth and I'll be right back. Don't wait for me, go to sleep, okay? Okay?"

John sort of laughed, and as the quick wash of adrenaline faded he felt itchy and suddenly very tired. "Sure, sorry, that was just…no more walls okay? It isn't even sexy."

Sherlock smiled but remained silent. Then he went and cleaned up. Brushed his teeth. And nothing else happened out of the ordinary. Not that night.

It was a day later, maybe two. They were in Sherlock's bed this time and John was half asleep, in that place that feels like dreams, when he heard a whisper. "Do it again."

He'd drawn in a low breath, unsure if he was awake, and was seconds from falling back into twilight sleep when Sherlock slid a hand over his bare hip and said softly against his ear, "Please?"

John rolled over then, a little groggy but waking, pretty sure now that this was about sex. "Hey," he whispered, "what's up?" He saw his lover's face in reflected street light, and ran his thumb gently, distractedly, over Sherlock's bruised lip.

Sherlock sighed, pooling warm need and desire over John's bare skin. "I want you to do it again." He bit his lip a little, right where it was still swollen, bruised. "Make me bleed."

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Yes, I just jumped right in, no back story of how they got together. I may add that later, I'm not sure. If you have thoughts about the story so far, I'd love to hear 'em please!_


	2. Chapter 2

Here's a fact: When people first meet Sherlock Holmes, they always think he's strong. Tough. Impenetrable.

It's probably his height. And the smart-ass mouth. And that brain. That _brain _which makes him so clearly a man above, a genius, a savant.

And an idiot. A freak. A child who doesn't understand that grief can linger, or that other people have lives with a purpose equal to his.

But this domineering, arrogant creature who seems so strong, can in reality be as fragile as a shell. Sometimes.

And sometimes he wants very much to be reminded of this fact.

"Make a mark…Make a mark on me."

John could be flossing his teeth, doing laundry, or dead tired but so help him if he heard those words, out of _that_ mouth, he was ready. Half hard and so ready to make this strong man weak. So ready to do something he never thought he could do to someone he loved.

Hurt him.

Because you don't leave a mark on a man's body without giving him pain. You can't romance a bruise onto pale flesh, or kiss teeth marks onto a neck. You have to bite, strike, scratch.

And you have to want to do it.

"John, Johnny, John…my John. Hurt me."

As soon as he asked, begged, they'd both be breathing hard before anything had been done to anyone, before one man had even touched the other.

And sometimes they'd let that be all they did for a minute, two, ten. Maybe Sherlock would say the words again, softer, louder, a little different, or exactly the same, and they would both think about _how._ How would it happen this time? What would hurt enough, just enough, oh so very much…but not forever, not…too much.

Sometimes the idea would be John's. Sometimes it would be Sherlock's. They both seemed to have a talent for this, for coming up with just how, a fact that surprised one man, but not the other.

"Where, baby?"

In books, military men don't use endearments like 'baby,' or 'honey.' But John wasn't a soldier from a novel, he was flesh and blood and when he saw the rib shadows on that pale reedy body, touched those deep-set cheeks, kissed over-large eyes, he saw a fragile man, a creature to protect, his own true love.

Which sure surprised the hell out of him, but there you go.

"Where, sweetie?"

Tonight Sherlock touched his neck. In the shadowy blue light of the bedroom, John smiled. It would be biting then, and he loved to bite because Sherlock loved to be bitten.

Then the thin man lifted his arms as if to hug himself but instead ran his hands down both biceps. And then over his own thighs. And then his mouth.

John frowned. So much. "Why?"

Sherlock shook his head. "I don't know. I just want more. I want to know what's too much." He closed his eyes, already feeling it happening, already imagining the perfect pain. "Don't stop until I ask you to."

They drifted close, but didn't touch. Not skin-to-skin anyway.

Body heat is a lovely thing: caressing, insinuating, stimulating. John let the other's man's warmth calm fears, soothe doubts, arouse desire. It was like a very legal narcotic, this, making it easier for John to do what he was about to do.

"All right," he said, and kissed that cupid's bow mouth, soft as a whisper. "Yes, yes."

Sherlock said nothing, which told John everything. The ideas tonight would be his then. He would take responsibility for what he did.

For what he was about to do.

_I would so much enjoy your feedback please pretty please. Should I continue? Thank you!_


	3. Chapter 3

John never ties Sherlock up for this. He was certainly not about to start now.

Oh, they tried it once. But it felt all wrong, weird, _violent._ Isn't that crazy? Sherlock, of course, figured out what the problem was. For it to feel right he needed to move, to respond, to _subject_ himself to what happened.

Because you see, when John hurts Sherlock's body—that pain? That pain does wonderful things for Sherlock's mind. Because a brain that can run as fast as fire over dry ground will gutter out without fuel, without stimulation, sensation, without _data._

And as much as John hated that word, and the words 'experiment,' 'deduction,' and 'analyze' he understood now, after many months, that when they were coupled with the words 'fuck me,' Sherlock was almost—not quite, but very close—saying "I love you, John. Get inside my _brain_ John, there's a fire in here and I want you to feed it. No one else can. No one else knows how."

_And I don't want them to._

It was that last part that started an entirely different fire in John.

They stood there in the dark bedroom, close as a whisper, fully dressed and not touching…and then it was time. John didn't ask Sherlock if he was ready because he knew he was _always_ ready for something he'd never done before, for something he couldn't predict.

Without a word, even a smile, John turned and left the room.

Of course Sherlock was on his heels like the child some part of him was, his mouth bunched up with words he didn't say because he had to watch what John was doing instead.

What John was doing was going to his knees in the living room. Yet not quite in a good way. Was the man about to start…to start _cleaning_ under the couch? Right about then Sherlock would smell like burning rubber if his brain actually gave off an odor—because while his mind was in high gear it seemed the parking brake was on. He had absolutely no idea—oh. Wait.

Sherlock finally noticed (how was it he hadn't see this before?), that the coffee table was off center by nearly an inch, and a bit of dust from beneath the couch was peeking out near its front leg.

How long had those things been that way? How had he not seen them before? He can't _not_ see things like that even if he wants to.

Briefly so wrapped up in astonishment at his own lack of perception, Sherlock didn't see John pull out the thing he'd hidden under the couch for a week now.

Not until the man turned around and at last smiled. In his hand was a long black riding crop. Of course. Certainly. It was only natural. Sherlock felt himself start to shake a little. In a very, very good way.

John walked toward him. The closer he got, the slower he moved, until finally they were five feet apart. Sherlock started to close the gap between them but saw—what? A half centimeter movement of John's hand; a frown that didn't show; the word _No_ like a thought bubble over his lover's sandy head.

Suddenly Sherlock felt his body go incandescent with pleasure. He thought he would throw up, or come. Maybe both.

When the world's only consulting detective performs his _shtick_ around strangers, telling them things about themselves they never shared, everyone thinks he's a freak, of course, but some harbor the sneaking suspicion he's a mind reader, too. He's not. Call him a _minute_ reader instead. A reader of the terribly, painfully, wonderfully small.

Because the details are always, always there, bright as day, like words on a page. You just have to know how to read them.

And as of now, right now, John, his John, was beginning to speak to him in this invisible language no one else seemed to know.

Sherlock closed his mouth and slowly backed up into his bedroom. After all, that's what John wanted him to do. It was as clear as words on a page.

Just like the tightening of John's hand around the riding crop.

_Okay, no more foreplay. Heck, I'm starting to frustrate myself, and I've been thinking over the details for days. Sex ensues next chapter. Thank you for your previous reviews which colored this chapter a great deal. More please?_


	4. Chapter 4

They'd taken the curtains off Sherlock's bedroom windows a long time ago. At night the streetlamp across the way cast enough light to wash the room in perfect blue shadow.

Yet even as they stood in that soft, dim glow John could see his lover's tall, thin body shaking, shaking so beautifully—and it gave him a sudden, simple idea. "I have a condition tonight, love," he whispered. "Just one."

Sherlock's erotic imagination tried gleefully to guess what that condition might be, but the sexual experience it had to draw from—one sorry incident at fifteen; the last two months with John—gave it precious little to work with.

"I'll do anything to you," John said, his voice soft as a kiss, "but for everything I do, you have to—"

John slid his tongue over his lips until Sherlock mirrored him, a beguiled cobra, "—well, you have to—"

Sherlock started to breath faster. Harder. He looked down at the riding crop pressed against the doctor's leg.

"You have to…eat a meal."

The whippet-lean detective pulled in his tongue, opened his mouth, and got ready to argue—he was good at arguing, he always won—but John clasped his hands behind his back and the riding crop disappeared from view.

"One meal," purred the good doctor. "For every mark."

Sherlock said nothing. He thought he _did_ nothing too, but apparently his body communicated a keening _yeeeeessss_ so clearly that John murmured, "Good." Then, tapping the riding crop softly against his leg he said, "Look out the window."

Sherlock obeyed like an over-large puppy.

At first he thought he was meant to see something in the street below. Then he felt John's body heat, then fingers sliding up his neck—_goosebumps all over, everywhere; a hot chill centered at my groin_—and into his hair. When fingernails scraped across his scalp Sherlock cataloged those sensations too—_larger goosebumps; a feeling that I need to—_but something new distracted him. John pulling, pulling until Sherlock's neck arched.

"Yes," the doctor said—_joy; need—_looking at that pale, thin throat in the blue light. He'd never been a particularly oral man before, but that skin, that long neck, it really did beg for biting, didn't it? John tugged again, harder, until the tall man understood, and went to his knees.

At last the one to tower, John leaned down, kissed a pulse-point on the side of Sherlock's throat softly, then softer still, until that tiny patch of skin was hyper sensitive, the center of his lover's world…then John bit so hard they both moaned.

If Sherlock hadn't already been on his knees he'd have gone to them then and there. Instead his cock went so hard, so fast, he moaned again, then again when John growled—_mine—_in his ear and bit even harder.

Teeth scraped skin—_ice; fire; pain; pleasure—_and Sherlock knew there would be a mark on his neck tomorrow, a fiery red beacon, a badge. "Yeeees," he hissed, leaning against John's chest, spreading his arms, opening his hands, a willing sacrifice.

That vulnerability nearly sent John to his knees, but instead he held tight to Sherlock's hair, kissed the other side of his lover's neck. For a moment he nibbled there, licked, tasted sweat, London grime, bow rosin, possibly gunpowder. Then he bit into the tender flesh as if ravenous.

Sherlock's back arched and he grabbed blindly at John's legs, scoring skin even through pants. The unexpected pain made the doctor moan, bite harder, and—to his great surprise—caused his cock to go rock hard.

Learn something new every day.

Suddenly Sherlock was overwhelmed with the smell of John: Sweat, pre-cum, saliva, breath, it was all there and it reeked of desire, need, sex.

Still on his knees he turned, grabbed the back of John's thighs and yanked him toward his mouth. He bit hard enough to feel John's erection through jeans, might have bitten even harder but for a sudden, stinging pain against his thigh.

Now why would an army doctor be so skilled with a horsewhip that he can wield it perfectly, and in silence?

A little deductive reasoning would surely unearth the answer to that, but you know what? Right now Sherlock didn't know. And he certainly didn't care.

He slid his arms around John's waist, pressed cheek against chest, let the sound of John's heart flow through him like a drug. "More," he murmured. "More."

John stroked his lover's sweaty brow, tugged back his head, and smiled down at him in the half-light. "Get up love. And get ready."

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_Okay, there are two erections in the room, and some sexy goings-on, yet it's not quite…sex is it? Damn. Trying. To. Write. Faster. (Comments help wit that. They sure do…)_


	5. Chapter 5

A dopey, drunk look on his face, Sherlock gazed up at John and said, "I'd like to see you make me."

For a moment John turned into the long-suffering flatmate, the one who put up with severed fingers in the ice trays and live death's head beetles in the cereal. The John who almost always let his domineering sweetheart have his own way.

Then he remembered who was on his knees. And who'd put him there.

Again Sherlock felt the sting of the crop against his leg before he knew it had moved. He released John with a petulant moan, but before he could stand the doctor swung again, striking the other thigh, hard.

Sherlock growled, fell forward onto one hand, clamped the other to his leg, tried to separate, define, and catalog each sensation burning through him, but thin, dark, and lethal—like the man it was abusing, actually—the riding crop struck again, first one of his arms, then the other.

Unlike Sherlock when he took to thrashing corpses, John didn't grunt with the effort of each swing of the whip, instead he bit his lips so hard he thought he'd scream.

Again, as if it were already a familiar ritual, the doctor swung, striking each of his lover's arms and legs, until Sherlock collapsed onto both hands, keening.

With a shuddering breath John stepped away from the window, until blue light washed over his lover's shaking body, a trembling he almost didn't see because he was shaking even worse. "Take—" his voice cracked, he cleared his throat "—take off your clothes, love."

Sherlock groaned, then slowly sat back on his haunches, eyes half closed. Swaying a little he held his hands out, palm up, like an over-large school boy, and rasped, "I'd like…to see…you…make me."

Exquisitely awful, the pain when it came, like a fire consuming flesh. John let him feel it, relish it, analyze it for a good ten seconds before he struck the palms again. Then he waited again, and struck again.

Mouth open, eyes closed, Sherlock had no words, just guttural, animal sounds as the conflagration burned through him. Then John was on his knees, hands cupped under his, bending over and licking each of his lover's palms, then blowing across them. If possible, it was the most comforting and sexual sensation Sherlock had ever felt.

They stayed like that for a minute, maybe two, then finally Sherlock seemed to fit his soul back into tender flesh, and he opened his eyes. He smiled, gingerly ran the backs of his fingers over John's cheeks, then with a ragged sigh reached for the buttons of his own shirt.

He grunted, navigating that familiar but alien terrain and it took him even longer with his belt, pants, underwear. When he was done, standing tall in the blue light, they both looked at his body.

White skin isn't good for much if you think about it. It sunburns too fast, shows scars clearly, gets skin cancer easily. But it is good for one thing. Showing injury.

Tongue trapped between his teeth Sherlock touched himself gingerly, first his upper arms—both of which bore fat red slashes—then over his legs, which shook despite him. _One, two, three, four, five, six_…Sherlock stopped counting the marks on his body with a small giddy laugh, then let himself go boneless and back to his knees.

Wounded hands held close to his chest, he leaned forward, rubbed his head against the doctor's and said, "Don't stop."

Very slowly John trailed a soft touch over the damaged skin on Sherlock's left arm, and said nothing. Then he put the riding crop down and touched each and every wound, noticing that two were bleeding a little.

_John's having second thoughts,_ Sherlock just knows it. _But he promised he wouldn't stop until I asked him to and now he's—_ "John, you said you would do anything. You said you—"

"Hush," the doctor whispered, a hand to his lover's lips. Then he smiled. "Oh, I forgot. You have a hard time doing that, don't you?"

Neck, arms, legs. A mark on each, that's what Sherlock had asked for, and that's what John had given him. That left just one place: His mouth.

Without looking down John plucked up the riding crop. "Maybe this will help."

He slid the whip between Sherlock's teeth like a bit—and pushed gently, relentlessly, until his lover was on his back on the floor, pinned there by the gentle arch of a riding crop in his mouth.

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_So help me god there are actual orgasms next chapter. "Right," the author asks herself desperately, "right?" Damn I sure hope so. Also, reviews please? Thank you!_


	6. Chapter 6

John was careful. Resting both hands on the floor either side of Sherlock's head, he kept the riding crop bowed, pinning his lover to the floor quite nicely, without pressing hard against teeth or tongue.

And damn if having this large, slightly manic creature held down and under his control wasn't enough to make John's cock ache. With a growl he leaned down and kissed Sherlock and between the whip's leather and his lover's wet, hot mouth…well John started pumping his hips against Sherlock's erection before he knew what he was doing.

And good god it was good. So good he knew he could come right now, fully dressed, like some teenager, but this wasn't about him, not tonight, no, so with a groan he slowed, stopped. Then, as he was about to slide down his lover's body and toward that cock, he had a very good—and very scary—idea.

He ducked his head down again, kissed Sherlock hard on the mouth, and whispered, "I have to get undressed," and just as he started to release the riding crop, Sherlock's hands ghosted (gingerly) over his and took their place. The world's only consulting detective was now holding _himself_ down with the whip.

"Oh my." John let out a ragged, extremely turned on breath.

It took him a second to tear his gaze away and gather his wits, but when he did John quickly stood and just as quickly stripped off his clothes. He lingered briefly, looking down at his lover, watched the fast rise and fall of Sherlock's chest, then looked at the man's cock, which was as hard as the rest of his long, lean body.

"Oh my," he said again, but for an entirely different reason.

Had John been about to let any other man on earth fuck him in the ass for the first time, he'd have insisted on a condom, of course. But this was, well this was Sherlock. Anti-social, arrogant, abrupt, rude Sherlock who had not only never had a boyfriend in the entirety of his thirty four years, but whose cock had also never had carnal relations with anything more alluring than a fist. Or John's mouth.

So no, no condom necessary, he knew that his lover was disease-free. Heck, if Sherlock so much as carried a cold germ it was probably frightened of him. Lubricant however? That would be nice.

John was back from the bedside table in a flash, and straddling his lover's hips. "It's time," he said, blinking a slow gaze down at his silent sweetheart. "It's your turn." With that he squeezed three times more lube on Sherlock's erection than was absolutely necessary.

When he was done John got into position as if he did this every day, then he hovered a moment, nervous, but not half as nervous as his lover. Sherlock took the riding crop from his mouth, was about to say, "We don't have to do this John, I'm fine without it," but already ready and in an anticipatory daze John shoved the crop back into place, then bore down slowly, until he felt the tip of Sherlock's cock enter him. Both men arched their backs.

John continued to lowered himself onto Sherlock's erection in tiny increments, goosebumps hiving his skin, a crazy-quilt of sexual pain and pleasure centered in the very last place he had ever expected to feel it.

Then, bowing his head and biting one of Sherlock's shoulders—bonus marks that'd be visible in the morning light—John pushed until his lover's cock slid all the way inside him.

They were both still for a few seconds, each processing some rather stunning physical sensations, then John started slowly, carefully moving. Up. Down. Up. Down. It was…kind of good. Over time up-down soon became faster. Slower. Faster. Slower. Then harder, and harder still. The longer Sherlock's cock pumped inside him, the more the pleasure outweighed the pain. It helped, yes it very much helped, that his sweetheart had started writhing under him like a man possessed.

Yes, Sherlock had masturbated when he hit puberty. Then he and another boy had jerked each other off when he was fifteen. And most recently John had gone down on him probably every single day for the last eight weeks. Yet none of these came remotely close to the feeling, the _incredibly tight_ brain-scrambling feeling of penetrating John's absolutely amazing ass.

Sherlock tried to think the sensations through, to analyze what he was feeling, he really did, but every time he attempted to engage that magnificent brain of his another deep thrust would short-circuit reason and all he could think was:_ slower, no, slower than that…faster, fasterfaster…I adore you John, I adore you…_

Every push inside his lover made him harder, every near-withdrawal made him moan, yet it's quite probable that Sherlock Holmes, with long years of experience denying himself food, sleep, and sex, could have held off his orgasm and continued fucking his lover for a good long while. John Watson, however, did not have the same aesthete's disposition.

"Come," John murmured frantically, rocking faster over Sherlock's body, sweat slicking his skin, "come come come come."

Sherlock groaned, his eyes clamped shut, teeth biting hard on the riding crop. _No_ that feral sound said. It also said _make me please please make me._

"I want you to come—" John bit hard at Sherlock's other shoulder. The same keening as before started building in the back of Sherlock's throat— "come, come come inside me, inside me, I need it _I—"_

Sherlock's entire body went hard, his back made a perfect arch, and the most incredible orgasm he'd ever had washed through his thin, wounded body.

* * *

Recovery took awhile, for both of them. But no one was in a rush. There were no vibrating mobiles vying for attention, no criminals to dash after, no experiments that needed tending. So the two of them lay there on the bedroom floor, one small man wrapped in the arms of his rangy love, and in the shadowy light they listened to one another's breathing slow, then steady.

John quite possibly may have dozed a moment, cradled there against lover's chest, but then Sherlock shifted slightly, rolled quickly, until John was beneath him.

Resting on his elbows, he took a long while to just look at every plane of John's face as if he'd memorize what he saw. He murmured "beautiful," and touched his lover's mouth, eyes, nose. Then very softly he whispered, "Anything. Everything."

John smiled, pulled his sweetheart down by dark curls, kissed him. "Next time, love," he whispered back. "This was for you."

Which came first, Sherlock's arrogance, rudeness, abruptness and then the world's rejection—or did the rejection cause the arrogance, rudeness, and abruptness?

Do you even have to ask?

Because, like every other human being on earth, Sherlock had not escaped the liability and the blessing of a heart. And sometimes, when John loved him this…perfectly…he was pretty sure he felt it breaking.

"I love you, John." Four words. Just four. No embellishments, no grand gesture, no drama need apply. Not right now.

Finally the world's only consulting detective shook off his post-sex melancholy and got a glint in his pale eyes, "Next time? I'm afraid that won't do. So I think I'll just do _you."_

Before John could ask when Dr. Seuss had got naked and crawled on top of him, Sherlock looked down critically at his boyfriend (by the way, he still gets flushed when he says the word out loud in public, as if everyone on earth knows how magical it is, how unreal that _he,_ Sherlock 'Freak' Holmes, has a sweetheart). When he looked, here's what Sherlock saw: John's mostly-absent erection; a slight prominence of crow's feet and laugh lines, indicating dehydration; that John was hungry, as evidenced by his main tell: a hand pressed against his stomach; and finally he saw that that hand trembled just a little. The conclusion? Tonight had taken a lot out of his lover; he was tired. All right then, no more games.

"What do you call it when the sex happens fast, little foreplay?"

John smiled lazily. "A quickie?"

Sherlock sat up suddenly, still astride the doctor's hips. "Yes! Perfect."

John ran his hands tenderly over Sherlock's battered thighs. "I'm a little whipped my love. You're a lot of work you know. It's really okay. We can continue this tomorr—uh…uh…"

As John talked Sherlock had slowly begun to rock his hips, lightly, gently, tongue pressed against his upper lip.

"Ehhh…"

Never looking away from his lover, Sherlock bit his bottom lip and…well it was softer than a moan, louder than a sigh… kept rocking against John's cock, a little more slowly.

"Uh—uuuh…"

Pursed lips now, a sound like humming, and then Sherlock ran the long fingers of one hand over his own body, from hip to chest, lingering briefly at a nipple, stroking it until it was erect. At about that point he moaned softly.

"Aaaa…"

Sherlock made his breathing a little deeper, faster, then pressed both palms lightly to his chest and ran them very…slowly…dooooooown—arching his neck, closing his eyes—down his chest, down his flat belly, down to his own cock, all the while rocking, rocking, rocking those hips against John.

"…"

Sherlock didn't stop there though, he kept those hands going, until they were at last on the prize he wanted: His lover's once-again raging hard-on.

_Clues, signs, hints,_ every day John gave them by a smile, a nod, a word, when Sherlock did something normal or something sweet; every night he was just as illuminating, with the arch of a back, a stuttered moan, a desperate plea. Every day John taught his lover what he liked, needed, wanted. He made it so easy to please him…and to be pleasing.

The tall man bowed over the smaller one and with a greedy moan took John's cock in his mouth and started to suck, and just like every other time he went down on John, Sherlock's moaning grew with each thrust, as if he were the one about to come, and of course that only made John arch his back higher, spread his legs wider. Sherlock loved that naked abandon, the knowledge that he could do this to John, make him yearn, make him want, make him this fucking hard.

Groaning, panting, John pushed his fingers into Sherlock's hair, thrust deeper, the worry of weeks ago gone because Sherlock had many times since then proven he could take it. So he abandoned himself to that beautiful mouth, hips bucking hard and fast, and when he felt a hand squeeze his testicles that was pretty much all she wrote. John started humping the face of his one-true-love like a school boy.

The orgasm took a long time playing out and while it did Sherlock stayed still, feeling the salty warmth as John spurt in his mouth. When he was sure it was done he waited a while longer, then gently pulled away and swallowed. John had told him the first time they'd had sex that he didn't expect or _need _him to do that; Sherlock had looked at him as if he were insane. All of it, everything, anything…so long as it was John. As if to prove the point, Sherlock would always linger and carefully lick away the come that continued to trickle for a minute or two after.

Eventually the room grew quiet, and John's breathing returned to normal. Sherlock kissed his lover's hip bones, his belly, then slid up and rested his head on the smaller man's chest.

For a moment all was blissfully silent. Then Sherlock looked up at his sweetheart and said very softly, "I was wondering John…did that count as one of my meals?"

* * *

It was eleven o'clock in the morning, the English sun was actually shining, and Lestrade, Donovan, and Anderson were standing around the Covent Gardens carousel with one consulting detective and his colleague, pretending to listen, and trying not to look.

It was pretty hard.

"—and it's so obviously Madagascar if you'd just use your brains and _think _about it—"

Everyone knows Sherlock tends to strut while he pontificates, ever-keen to draw the eye, to make sure all present know exactly how smart he is. Well today, take that usual flare, square it, and give it a nice post-coital zing.

"—and when you take into consideration the cat hair on his left sock—"

Elaborating on the deductive details of the case he had just now closed, twenty minutes after having arrived, Sherlock talked at length, paced slowly, gestured extravagantly and each of the three Scotland Yard detectives tried very, very hard not to look.

"—but missing his bus this morning is probably what motivated him to—"

The pacing man's neck was the first place they looked, pretending not to. The rather interminable length of that neck was exactly the reason Sherlock usually covered up with fancy collared shirts and high thick scarves, but not today. Today his shirt and coat were collarless, the scarves were at home, and that expansive real estate was a billboard he seemed to be flashing all over town.

_What kind of weird experiment _was_ that_, Anderson thinks, unconsciously touching his own throat.

_Hickies,_ Donovan thinks, frowning._ Someone actually gave the freak hickies._

Lestrade squints in the morning light. He needs glasses, he knows he does, but this is pretty clear. _Teeth marks, those are teeth marks. On his neck. Someone bit him. Hard. More than once._ It's difficult but Lestrade doesn't glance at John.

"—and obviously they were both bespoke suits, though they weren't his—"

The second place they tried not to look was Sherlock's mouth. To even the unobservant eye that mouth was alluringly swollen, with chapped lips as red as berries. So voluptuously sexual it was easy to imagine all kinds of things going _into_ it and at least one thing coming out.

"—but the email never arrived of course—"

Donovan bunched up her face as if tasting something bitter, Anderson sort of frowned, and Lestrade lifted a shaking hand to press at the bridge of his nose, his movements so erratic that instead he poked himself in the eye. Hard. Just as well.

"—though I'll admit the candle wax did give me a moment's pause—"

The third thing the three Scotland Yard detectives tried not to notice was Sherlock's marvelously subtle limp. A pure fiction, that one, it nonetheless hinted at things they couldn't see, at things two of them couldn't even imagine, at things one of them was trying not to.

"—so he clearly thought there was no choice but to hide it in the carousel—"

Meanwhile, seated on the edge of that very same carousel, John silently watched three people watch his lover. He kept his face impassive, but enjoyed their clear expressions of consternation and conjecture. He was surprised he didn't feel any embarrassment—"Hi, we like kinky sex! Very hot, very kinky sex!"—and that he wanted them all to know that those marks were his, that Sherlock chose _him_.

"—and finally, did none of you ever think to wonder why he smelled of oranges?" The tall man laughed without humor. "I mean really." Sherlock stopped pacing, shrugged. "Honestly, sometimes I just want to wash my hands,"—he held up two ungloved hands, palms out—"of all of you."

As if prearranged, three sets of eyes widened in unison, and three heads tilted to the side, and everyone finally noticed the forth thing they quickly pretended not to see.

With a wide grin that reached all the way to his eyes, Sherlock rubbed his still-tender palms together with relish. Confident at last that everyone had seen precisely what he wanted them to see, he said, "Now. Next time could you _please_ please come up with something a touch more challenging?"

As they walked off into a very lovely English winter morning, shoulders brushing, John muttered, "Good lord, you are a complete prat."

Sherlock laced his fingers through the doctor's. "Yes, but I'm _your_ complete prat."

_End_

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* * *

Good lord this was fun to write. I love John. I love Sherlock. Please let me know if you liked how things turned out, it has been so lovely to get your feedback. Thank you!_

_P.S. Thanks again FoxFire222 for the idea for the final chapter!_


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